IHATE GAME poachers. You know the kind of guy I’m referring to. He’s that poor excuse for a human who thinks he’s a hunter because he shoots a lot of deer and moose from his pickup truck while shining a billion candle power spotlight on them, and then leaves them in some farmer’s field to die and rot. He brags about the deer he shoots legally, but everyone knows he’s lying through his tooth. He’s not a man, and he’s certainly not a hunter.

He’s the kind of guy who is able to hunt at midnight because, during the day, he naps. His shiny, new F150 with the fancy spotlights is parked in the dooryard of his shack down by the river while his wife works a double shift down at Dan’s Market and his poor, rag-wearing kids are off at school.

I wish there was an open season on deer jackers. Have the game wardens turn them loose in a field and allow law-abiding sportsmen to cull the human herd of some of the weak-minded, amoral, spineless losers that steal the wildlife that wardens and honest outdoorsmen, like me, seek to preserve and protect. I’d pay good money for that license permit.

Since I loathe poachers, I like game wardens . . . most game wardens.

When I was a young man—a long time ago—the warden responsible for the area from Smalltown to Island Lake was Dain Eldridge. He was a peabrained, power hungry, meanspirited, arrogant putz. I mean that in the kindest way, of course.

Dain wasn’t smart enough to outwit the deer poachers, so he abused the power of his position and wasted taxpayers’ dollars by prosecuting dangerous culprits like my grandfather. It seems Gramps had taken my twelve year old nephew, Jake, fishing for the afternoon. Jake was visiting for the day from Connecticut, and had no fishing license. Dain nailed Gramps for fishing with two poles, in a pond that was home to nothing but three gazillion yellow perch. My grandfather lost his fishing license for two years, and the world was a safer place, thanks to Dain Eldridge.

A long time ago, shortly after the little woman and I were married, I was hunting squirrels up near Hogback Knob with my brothers, Sam and KC, when I found a broken robin’s egg on the ground. It was the prettiest shade of blue I’d ever seen. I guess you’d call it . . . well . . . robin’s egg blue.

I knew Winnie would like it, so I tucked it gently into the little plastic Baggie I use to keep my hunting license dry.

Wouldn’t you know it? When we returned to my truck, Dain Eldridge was parked there waiting for us. He knew my Dodge Ram and also knew my brothers and I come from a long line of dangerous perch poachers, so he was likely concerned that we’d get more than our share of the two billion gray squirrels up on Hogback Knob.

Needless to say, when I pulled the Baggie from my pocket to show my license, Dain, being blessed with ultra-keen senses, spotted the little, blue egg shell.

“Looks like you found a robin’s egg,” he stated.

“Yup.”

“You can’t remove that from the woods. It upsets the balance of nature.”

That’s when I lost it. “The balance of nature? I can’t believe you’re preaching to me about the balance of nature! You cleared two acres of beeches and ash trees from what was once the best hunting area in the county so you could put your house and your mother’s trailer there, and you have the audacity to chastise me for removing a broken egg shell from the forest? You peabrained, useless, rubber-spined . . . drain on society. Don’t you have something better to do? Why are you bothering me over this used robin’s egg?”

“Because I can.” Dain smirked. “It’s my job.”

So now you’re sitting there reading about Dain Eldridge, the dim-witted, self-important, spineless, poor excuse for a human being. And do you know why I’m telling this story to millions (okay, maybe hundreds) of readers?

Because I can. It’s my job.

To comment on this article or to read Joe’s previous Thoughts, log onto http://www.avgjoewright.blogs pot.com

August…